The Substitute
by ColdCoffeeEyes25
Summary: When Hagrid pops the question to Madame Maxime and the wedding date is set for April, the Hogwarts faculty must find a replacement Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Crossover with The Crocodile Hunter.
1. Default Chapter

**THE SUBSTITUTE, Chapter One**

******

Leave it to a Frenchwoman, thought Minerva McGonagall disapprovingly, to insist on a May wedding regardless of who it inconvenienced.

The Frenchwoman in question was Olympe Maxime – the wedding, of course, Hagrid's.  And he, for his part, was as mawkishly sentimental about his upcoming nuptials as anyone who knew him might expect.  

Minerva, though she might secretly roll her eyes at his antics in private, would never have dreamed of disparaging a fellow Professor for his abundance of tender feelings, either in his presence or behind his back.  The timing of the wedding, however, was a different matter entirely, particularly as scarcely more than a month would remain before the end of the term, once he left on his honeymoon.

Naturally, there had been talk of hiring a replacement, as well as the suggestion that they'd might as well let the course slide and allow the students to forego the exam.  Minerva, who frequently found herself playing the Voice of Reason in the impromptu comedic farces that Albus liked to refer to as 'staff meetings', merely out of a bone-deep fear that on one else would take up that particular banner if once she let it drop, was a supporter of the latter option.

Not that she approved of the students missing class, mind you.  But it _was_ an elective, not a core class … and even if it hadn't been, she reminded the others tersely, where did they expect, this late in the term, to find a replacement willing to teach Care of Magical Creatures?

It was at this point that Albus dropped Conversational Bombshell Number One – Hagrid, citing the desire to spend more time with his new wife, had tendered his resignation as Hogwarts Professor, wishing to return instead to his former position as gamekeeper.  At this, a murmur ran round the table.  Minerva regrouped quickly.

"All the more reason," she pointed out, "not to enter into a decision lightly.  If the new Professor is to be a permanent addition to the faculty, perhaps we should take advantage of the summer holidays to settle on the best candidate.  I, personally—" she shuddered inwardly at the prospect –"would be willing to head the Search Committee."

"Such pained nobility, Minerva!" murmured Severus Snape from the far corner of the table.  "Such a performance!  Your best yet, I'll wager."

True to form, he'd brought a stack of student essays with him to the meeting and had been slashing away in red ink throughout the discussion, sneering to himself.  Now, however, he looked up from his grading and smirked at her.  "The Academy will no doubt be in touch.  I'd call Valentino for a fitting posthaste, if I were you."

Minerva curled her lip at him.  

"_Severus—" _she began warningly, but was pre-empted in her planned castigations by Albus, who'd apparently been holding Bombshell Number Two in reserve just for this very eventuality.

"Admirable sentiments, Minerva," he cut in amiably, twinkling at her.  "Most sensible indeed.  If I hadn't already hired a replacement for Hagrid this very morning, I would have been most grateful for your invaluable offer of leadership in this affair."  Smiling beneficently, he leaned back in his chair and began to pick at a spot of strawberry jam in his beard – the better, Minerva suspected, to enjoy the ensuing _fracas_.  She glared at him.

The rest of the faculty perked up at the news – rather like onlookers at a crime scene, hoping against prurient hope to see a body.  Only old Binns continued to snuffle gently from his fireside easy chair.  Minerva caught Sybil Trelawney with her mouth open, about to make some preposterous announcement or other, and sent her a Meaningful Look until she shut it again.

"So – who's it to be, Albus?" squeaked Flitwick.  "Don't hold out on us.  Witch or wizard?"

"Wrong question, Filius," breathed Snape through lips that didn't move, presumably to the essay in his lap.  "What we should be asking is this:  animal, vegetable, or mineral?"  He paused, drew a red line through an entire hapless paragraph, and narrowed his eyes in satisfaction.  "Of course, we're still trying to find out which of those _Hagrid_ was."

Ermengarde Sprout giggled.  Minerva clamped down on the traitorous beginnings of an appreciative smile.  All that sarcasm could be very funny indeed … but admitting to amusement, she felt, definitely sent the wrong message in this case.

"Neither," Albus said serenely, and Minerva closed her eyes as the entire faculty turned to goggle at him.

Well, that was Bombshell Three, all right, and in classic Albusian fashion, he'd saved the best for last.  Wearily, she opened her mouth to voice the expected reiteration.

"Neither, Albus?"

"That's correct, Minerva," Dumbledore said tranquilly, the picture of dignity despite the fact that a sizable circular segment of his beard was still stained strawberry-pink.  "The new Care of Magical Creatures will be—"

_"—Fang_," inserted Snape, _sotto voce_.  Sprout laughed out loud; Dumbledore pretended calmly that he hadn't heard the interruption.

"—the reknowned Australian exotic-animal expert, Mr. Steven Irwin," he continued.  "Also known as – what was it again? Oh, yes – the _Crocodile Hunter_.  I believe some of our students will be quite familiar with Professor Irwin's work from the outset – in his own way, he's as well-known as poor Gilderoy was – as his adventures have been broadcast on international television for a number of years throughout the Muggle world."  He consulted a scroll at his elbow.  "Hm, what else?  Ah.  The eponymous star of a feature-length documentary.  Eager to add a teaching credit to his résumé, besides being intrigued by the prospect of encountering the creatures of the magical world.  Fearless, I'm told.  Comes very highly recommended …"

The rest of the faculty wasn't listening any longer.  They were staring at each other in slow-dawning, horrified realisation.

"Merlin in a girdle," said Snape, too transfixed by this bit of news to realise that he was dripping red ink all over Hermione Granger's meticulously-scripted homework assignment.  "You've finally gone and done it.  He's a _Muggle_."

For once, Minerva could find nothing to add.

**


	2. Substitute, Chapter 2

THE SUBSTITUTE 

**Chapter Two**

******

Muggle or not, Steve Irwin had clearly impressed Dumbledore with his job qualifications.  Despite Snape's voiced misgivings and the quieter brand of resistance offered by the rest of the staff – despite incredulous speculation in the _Daily Prophet_ and the coldly-worded note of objection that arrived the next afternoon from Malfoy Manor via eagle owl – despite multiple visits from an even-more-flustered-than-usual Cornelius Fudge, reluctant to bend the rules of Hogwarts' invisibility for even one Muggle but even more unable to deny Albus this seemingly modest wish – the contract of employment was duly prepared and sent out, and came back by owl in a matter of hours.

_At least he's punctual_, Minerva thought, sipping pumpkin juice and watching Albus – having pushed his dinner plate absently toward the post owl – page through the contract checking for signatures.  _That's more than Hagrid ever was_.

If the truth be told, it was mostly due to Hagrid's own … _idiosyncracies_ … that Irwin was being hired at all; Dumbledore's strongest argument in his favor usually included the point that Hagrid had been performing his Care of Magical Creatures duties for years now without benefit of magic.  For anyone who knew anything, this didn't exactly wash – every single faculty member at Hogwarts, and most of the students, knew about the pink umbrella by the back door of the gamekeeper's hut – but Fudge, at least, had swallowed it.

_True, true, _he'd said, his florid face shiny with anxious perspiration.  _But y'know, Albus, magic or no magic, Hagrid's just rather – powerful, isn't he?  Half-giant and all.  Sort of gives him an 'in' with the beasties, if you know what I mean …_

At this, Albus had gone quite cold – a terrifying eventuality made even more terrifying because it almost never happened.

_Perhaps I misunderstand you_, he'd said icily, his long white beard practically standing on end with suppressed indignation.  _Certainly you wouldn't mean to imply that giants aren't …human, would you, Cornelius?_

Fudge went a bit redder and shinier.

No, no.  'Course not.  I'm just saying, in terms of sheer size … 

_Mr. Irwin will do splendidly, I am sure_, Albus had said, with a quelling look in his blue eyes that made it clear the argument was over.  And Fudge, being Fudge, had gulped and muttered something and shuffled back into the Floofire as quickly as his chubby little legs could take him.

_Idiot_.

Minerva, so far, had managed to keep her opinions to herself, merely by convincing herself that it was none of her business who taught the Creatures class.  Now, however, Albus seemed determined to test her resolve.

"The new Professor," he said, scanning a handwritten note that had been folded into the contract, "will be arriving in London early tomorrow afternoon.  Could I trouble you, Minerva, to meet him at King's Cross?  He'll need assistance in getting through the gate."

Fork halfway to her mouth, Minerva hesitated, then nodded – but with a slitty-eyed, catlike stare intimating that he was going to Owe Her Big Time.

"Certainly," she said – then, unable to resist poking at him a bit:  "After all, I hadn't a single other thing planned for my Saturday, Albus.  My every spare moment is dedicated to your whim."

His lips twitched at her ironic tone, but he had the grace to flush.  "My apologies.  I hadn't expected him until next week; he's quite eager to start.  Normally, as you know, we have new teachers Floo in, or Apparate – Remus took the train, but then again, that's Remus for you.  Whoever meets him should be someone who can pass, at least temporarily, for a Muggle.  And you, of course, are our resident Transfiguration expert …"

Minerva rolled her eyes.  "Flattery will get you nowhere, Albus," she said crisply.

He appeared not to hear her.  "I could, of course, send _Severus_—"

_Here we go.  He's pulling out the heavy artillery now_.  "You know very well," she pointed out, hating herself for rising to his bait, "that Severus would never consent to go.  Not that you'd want him to, mind.  Five minutes in his company, and the poor man would throw himself out a window merely to escape."

"You wound me, Minerva."  

As if on cue, Snape – who had clearly been eavesdropping – leaned over to commandeer the pepper mill.  "I, of course," he went on, managing to look at once sanctimonious and full of malice, "would be _pleased _and_ proud_ to offer my services in any way that's required of me."

_Merlin's goolies in a vise_, Minerva thought testily, and rolled her eyes.  _I'm going to injure them both_.  "I'll go," she said, curling her lip at Snape.  "I said I would, didn't I?  But while we're on the topic, Albus, tell me this – does the man know _anything_ about magical creatures?"

"I owled him the textbook along with the contract," Dumbledore said, forking up creamed potatoes.  A blob clung to his upper lip, making his moustache look as if it had grown a tumour.  Minerva looked away.

"And you think _that's_ ample preparation?"  She sent a sweeping look out over the four long tables full of chattering students.  "Miss Granger's had that book memorised for three years, Albus.  Probably Mr. Malfoy, too"—this with a hard look over her shoulder at Snape.  "Between the two of them, they'll have the poor man on toast points for a snack.  I'll be surprised if he lasts the week."

"Professor Irwin," Albus said serenely, "is more than capable of dealing with fifth-year students, no matter how precocious.  I do believe he'll surprise you, Minerva, if you allow him to do so."

Gently spoken, but no less final than his parting words to Fudge.  Minerva sighed, plucked her napkin out of her lap, and let it settle over the remains of her dinner like a starched white shroud.  Snape, she noticed, wasn't eating either.

Sometimes, this job could quite take away even the healthiest of appetites.

**

_I do believe he'll surprise you, Minerva_.

Like many of Dumbledore's pronouncements, this seemingly innocuous sentence took on frightening new dimensions when applied to its intended situation.  Minerva shut her eyes, swallowed hard, then opened them again and groaned out loud.

_Neptune's knickers.  Please, please, please let that not be him_.

The object of her supplications was a stocky man of medium height with messy blond hair, a pleasant open face, and beady eyes which gave him a rather hamsterish look.  Minerva had expected him to be wearing Muggle clothing, and indeed he was – a safari jacket, a pair of indecently short khaki pants showcasing a matching set of hairy knees, and a pair of battered leather ankle boots that looked as though Fang had chewed them.

Wizarding robes would have been warmer, Minerva thought acerbically, and not nearly so conspicuous.  But that wasn't the worst of it.

He was holding a snake – or rather, the snake was holding _him_, she couldn't tell which.  It had to be at least twelve feet long, mottled grey and brown with an evil-looking flattish head and yellow eyes that looked almost feline, and its body was nearly as thick as her forearm.  As she watched, aghast, he bent his head and planted a casually affectionate smack of a kiss on the creature's sinuous body, then unwrapped it from his waist as unconcernedly as if he was uncoiling garden hose.

Six dozen London commuters gasped in wide-eyed unison.  Minerva felt a tension headache coming on.

"Come on then, mate," he was murmuring in a broad North Queensland accent that should have been surprising but wasn't; it seemed to fit him.  "Know you don't like the bag, but that's all right then, ent it?  Only for a little while, and they won't want you on the train like this.  That's it, don't muck about, in you go—_what_ was that platform number again?"

The commuters weren't budging – clearly, _they_ wanted to know which train he was getting on, too.  Minerva dug viciously at her temples with both thumbs, then sidled behind a stone column and stealthily drew her wand.

"_Obfuscus_," she murmured, relaxing a little as the crowd blinked on cue, then began to wander away toward their respective platforms.  Smoothing down the unfamiliar contours of her bottle-green Muggle business suit, she pursed her lips and shouldered her way through the crowd.

"Professor Irwin?"

Still in the act of stuffing the python into a soft-sided carrying case, the man looked up at her, startled.

"That's me," he said, zippering the case closed, and stuck out a hand so scarred and weathered that it looked like dragonhide.  "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Minerva lied, shaking the proffered hand gingerly; she'd still been hoping against hope that this _wasn't_ Steve Irwin, that the real Steve Irwin had taken one look at this madman with the snake and departed for parts unknown.  Ah, well – the minute she got him to Hogwarts, he would cease to be her problem.  "I'm Minerva McGonagall."  She cast a quick suspicious glance around them – apparently, the Obfuscus was still holding.  "Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts and Professor of Transfiguration.  Albus Dumbledore asked me to see you onto the train."

"Brilliant."  Irwin grinned at her, such a guileless Hufflepuffian smile that she couldn't help but return it, even if she did manage to twist hers into a vaguely disapproving grimace before sending it on its way.  "Beautiful name, Minerva.  Always liked it.  Call me Steve."

Oh, this wasn't going well.  Minerva grimaced again, noncommittally.

"There isn't much time before the train leaves," she said, looking at his battered trunk enquiringly.  "Are these all your things?"

"Everything for now."  He hoisted the python carrier onto one shoulder and reached for the handle of the trunk, his eyebrows shooting up as she got to it before he did.  "Here, now, let me …"

"_Reducio_," Minerva muttered, after another clandestine look around her, and stooped to pick up the trunk, now the size of a chocolate bar.  Irwin, she noted smugly, was staring at her with his mouth open.  "Shall we go?"

"Crikey," he said admiringly, and followed her through the brick wall toward the train.

**


	3. Substitute, Chapter 3

**THE SUBSTITUTE, Chapter Three**

******

"Crikey," Steve Irwin said again, and Minerva supposed she couldn't blame him.  If you didn't grow up immersed in the wizarding culture, it _would_ be rather overwhelming; she'd seen it time and again among her Muggle-born Gryffindors.

There were differences, of course.  In the students' case, they mostly stayed quiet until they got into the swing of things.  Steve Irwin, however, seemed determined to jump in feet-first.

"A snack?" he was saying now to dumpy little pink-smocked Chloë Ipswich, who ran the Hogwarts Express concession cart.  "Don't mind if I do.  Minerva, can I treat you to anything?"

He was already out of his seat and over by the pushcart, closely examining a box of Chocolate Frogs.  Minerva hesitated, then shrugged.

"A small gillywater, please, Chloë," she requested.  "And whatever Mr. Irwin would like.  You may bill the school."

Irwin poked through the assortment of sweets, finally buying a bottle of butterbeer and – with an intent look of curiosity on his face – a pair of Frogs.  As Chloë backed the cart out of their car and into the corridor, Minerva uncapped the gardenia-fragrant gillywater, took a sip, and watched him unwrap one of them.  It hesitated – they were all the same, Chocolate Frogs – croaked once, and made its customary curious mechanical leap out of the box.  Irwin, though obviously startled, caught it with a deft, instinctive grab and returned it gently to his palm.

"Blimey," he muttered, lowering his face until he and the Frog were eyeball-to eyeball.  "It _moves."  A quick assessing glance in Minerva's direction.  "Is it alive?"_

"Just an enchantment," she assured him, watching with thinly disguised amusement as he turned his disbelieving gaze back to the little chocolate animal in his palm.  "The students like to eat them while they're still wriggling, little barbarians that they are.  Yours is losing its steam, though – see?  If you don't eat it soon, it'll start to melt."

"Oi.  _Wicked_."  

His next move came as a surprise to Minerva; rather than eating it, he tipped the weakening Frog gently back into its box and grinned self-deprecatingly at her, the beginnings of a flush riding his cheeks.  "Can't do it to the little tyke," he explained.  "Once I've seen it move, I can't think of it as food.  Not much of a sushi eater, either."

Setting the Frogs aside, he uncapped a bottle of butterbeer with a twist of his wrist.  Minerva caught a quick glimpse of gold on his left hand.  

"You have a family, Mr. Irwin?" she inquired.  He nodded.

"Got a dog, a wife, and a baby girl.  Pretty much in that order."  He took a cautious sip of the butterbeer, hummed in half-startled approval, and took another swig.  "We own the Australia Zoo, Terri and I.  She stayed behind with Suey – that's the dog – and Bindi – that's the baby – to keep the place running."  He patted the python case on the seat next to him.  "Brought my mate Bondo here to remind me of home.  Would've brought Terri, too – mostly we go everywhere together – but we've cut back on travelling a bit, now that me dad's retired.  Besides, we do lots of crocodile rescues around Queensland, and somebody's got to keep the team together."

"It must be difficult to leave them," Minerva commented.  Irwin shrugged.

"Not like I'm really leaving," he said.  "Albus said something about travelling by fire?  We're having a fireplace installed; soon as the mortar's dry, he says I'll be able to pop back home a couple of times a week.  Getting all kinds of flak over the fireplace, of course.  Not like you can explain that sort of thing to the blokes, now, is it?"

_He's hooking up to the Floo Network?  No wonder Fudge had his knickers in a knot_.  __

"I suppose not," Minerva said politely, and lapsed into silence.  Across from her, Irwin took out his Newt Scamander text and opened it to a dog-eared page near the middle.

"Interesting stuff here," he said at length.  "Have to admit that I didn't believe half of it until I saw you shrink that trunk.  Now, I'm having to rethink things a bit."  He withdrew a stack of tea-stained parchment from the inside back cover of the book and shuffled through it.  Minerva recognised Hagrid's handwriting on the pages.

"The curriculum, I presume?" she asked.

"Something like that.  Bit spotty in places."  He frowned and rifled through the textbook again.  "He's got a ton of notes about some kind of animal called a Skrewt, which isn't even in the book.  S'posed to be raising 'em with the fourth-years.  Know anything about that?"

Minerva shuddered.

"Yes," she said shortly.  "Avoid them at all costs.  The Skrewts, that is, not the fourth-years."

Irwin perked up.  "Dangerous, are they?"

"Rather."  Minerva finished her gillywater and absently Transfigured the empty bottle into a sparrow finch – then, as she caught the hungry look in Bondo's yellow eyes through the side of his carrier, into a potted geranium.  "But then, the word is that you specialise in that sort of thing."

He flushed with pleasure.  "All my life.  Always been a bit of a thrill-seeker, ever since I was a little tyke."  He patted the python bag again.  "But it's more than that, 'specially with the crocs.  I'm out to help them.  I'm a _conservationist."_

His earnestly homely face, combined with what was obvious sincerity and that ludicrous, ludicrous accent, made for an oddly appealing package.  _He's like a cartoon of himself_, Minerva thought – and then, in the next breath:  _oh, Severus is going to loathe him._

It really didn't bear thinking about.

**

The walk up from Hogsmeade was a nightmare.

If she'd thought he was fidgety _before_, on the train!  Minerva watched, alarmed, as her companion went down on his knees on the path, next to a half-rotten log.

"Fascinating," he murmured, rolling the log over and inspecting the resident wildlife underneath it with what she was beginning to accept as his customary _sangfroid_.  "'Ello there, mates.  Nice little ecosystem you've got yourselves here, what?  Getting ready for summer?"  He beamed up at Minerva.  "Never been here in the spring before.  Though we did do a bit of a piece on badgers once, one summer.  Beautiful place."

"Yes, well.  The grounds are quite lovely," Minerva said tightly.  "Once we get to them."

Irwin didn't take the hint.  He had grasped a slender green snake by the tail and was winding it carelessly round his wrist, despite its intent efforts to bite him.

"G'day, mate," he murmured.  "Out a little early this year, aren't you?  Little garden snake, that's all you are – that's right, you're _beautiful_."

The snake hissed.  Minerva sighed.

"Professor Irwin," she said.  "I don't wish to hurry you, but we're rapidly approaching the dinner hour, and Albus wished to introduce you to the students tonight while they're all gathered together.  There'll be ample time for you to explore the grounds later."

 "Sorry," he said, carefully setting down the irritated snake and gently rolling the log back to its original position.  "I get a little carried away.  Just kick me a sharp one if I start to babble."

Minerva, though tempted, declined.

But then they were through the gates, and the path crested – there, there was the castle, as big and grand as a sleeping stone dragon, with the grounds spread out in a long slow slope on either side.  The lake shimmered as though afire in the setting sun; as they approached the castle, a dark shape bobbed to the surface of the water and extended a friendly tentacle in their direction.

Steve Irwin stopped in his tracks.

"What's _that_?" he asked, and Minerva shut her eyes as if in pain.

"It's the guardian of the lake," she said shortly.  "The Giant Squid.  Very ancient, very powerful, very valua—_Professor_?"

He had unhooked the python carrier from his shoulder and set it down in the path.  Now, he was walking toward the lake.

"Professor?  Professor!"  Minerva raised her voice.  "Professor, dinner begins in twenty minutes!  There are merpeople in that lake, and they're not friendly!  _Do you hear me?_"

A splash was her only answer.

_This couldn't possibly get worse_, she thought, then could have kicked herself for even thinking that when a familiar voice floated over her shoulder.

"Have a nice Saturday, Minerva?"

A highly amused Severus Snape was standing behind her.

**


	4. Substitute, Chapter 4

**THE SUBSTITUTE, Chapter Four**

******

She had no doubt that the students – particularly her Gryffindors – would love him.  That thought, however, was small consolation at the moment.

Dripping wet, muddy from head to foot, and bleeding from a long scratch down one of his arms from where a merperson – understandably disgruntled at being accosted by this strange, curious human – had flung a rock at him, he had emerged happily from the lake fifteen minutes into the dinner hour and fallen into step beside the fuming Minerva.

"Blimey, but they're skittish," he reported, flashing that slightly-insane adventurer's grin.  "Odd little screechers, eh?  Took a piece out of me arm, they did.  Came after me with big forks.  Brilliant."  He scratched his nose, transferring another blob of mud to his face in the process.  "And that squid – what a beauty!  Tame as soap, that one.  Gorgeous."

Snape, who had been lurking just off the path, opened his mouth and then closed it again; apparently, even his considerable gifts for extemporaneous sarcasm weren't equal to the momentous opportunities of this occasion.  Minerva, however – all-too-familiar with that malevolently gleeful I'm-about-to-be-terribly-witty-at-some-other-poor-sap's-expense look on his face – shot him a quelling look.

"Professor Irwin," she said, "allow me to introduce Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House and Hogwarts Potions Master."  She narrowed her eyes at Snape.  "Professor Snape, this is Professor Irwin – he'll be taking over Care of Magical Creatures for Hagrid."

"Call me Steve," Irwin said cheerfully, wringing Snape's hand.  Snape extricated himself with alacrity and sneered meaningfully at the layer of pond ooze now clinging to his palm.

"Charmed."

Minerva rushed to run psychic interception – Irwin was about to take a mental Bludger to the brain and didn't even know it.  "We're late for dinner," she said hastily, and put herself in between the two of them, managing to twitch the hem of her robes out of the path of more loose mud while simultaneously elbowing Snape sharply in the ribs.  "I think a Cleaning Charm is in order, no?  And you'll want some robes …"

"Robes?"  Irwin glanced sideways at Snape's sweeping black cloak and raised a dubious eyebrow.  "Sort of restrictive, aren't they?  And not so practical, either.  I'll stick to me own clothes, if you don't mind."

"As you wish," Minerva said tightly, trying not to wince at the thought of him walking bare-legged into the Great Hall, and raised her wand before they could ascend the steps to the front door of the castle.  "_Purgare!_"

She would have added a Drying Charm, but Irwin was already in the door.  With an admiring glance around the Entrance Hall, he crossed to the staircase, gently set down the python's carrying case, and began to unzip it.  Minerva's eyes widened.

"Professor?  We're expected in the Great Hall."  _Twenty minutes ago_.

"Only be a tick," he said, reaching into the case.  "Just let me get Bondo out – he's not such a happy fellow when he's cooped up too long."  The snake's gleaming fire-hose midsection appeared, followed closely by its head and … a bit later … its tail.  Minerva had the satisfaction of hearing Severus draw a sharp breath – whether it was admiring or wary, she couldn't be quite certain, but she preferred to imagine the latter.

"Your … familiar, I presume," he drawled, recovering himself.  Irwin grinned at him.

"Had 'im since he was a little tyke – I guess he's about as familiar as a snake can be."  He stroked Bondo's snout affectionately.  "Ready for dinner, mate?"

_Dinner?_

Minerva's lips tightened.

_Oh, no.  Oh, no no no no NO_.

Over her dead body was he walking into the Great Hall with that … thing … around his neck.

**

"Professor …" she started, but Irwin was already moving toward the sound of voices, behind the door to the Great Hall.

"This the way to the tucker, then?"  His eyes were alight with expectation.  "Can't say I'm sorry to see it coming – if I had it to do over again, those little chocolate blighters I met on the train wouldn't have gotten off so lightly.  I'm hollow to the _toes_."

"Wait!" Minerva yelped, but it was too late – Severus, with a malevolent smirk, had already thrown open the door.  Four double rows of students twisted curiously in their seats at its distinctive heavy scrape – their inevitable,  near-Pavlovian response to a sound that usually heralded High Drama of one kind or another – and, at sight of him, kept staring, mouths open, food forgotten.  A gasp went up, and immediately following it, a fast low surge of whispered conversation began to wind its way down the tables.  The wizard-born students looked puzzled and a bit nervous – probably because of the snake; the Muggle-borns, Minerva noticed, simply looked stunned.

"I _know_ that guy," she heard one of the Hufflepuffs whisper behind his hand.  "He's on the telly every afternoon during the summer.  My mum thinks he's funny – I say he's a raving lunatic.  He picks up crocodiles with his _bare hands_."  A momentary pause.  "Christ, look at the bloody_ snake_, will you?  It's as tall as Ernie."

"Is he a wizard?"  This, a bit doubtfully, from his dinner companion.  "_I_ didn't know he was a wizard."

"Dunno.  Must be – why else'd he be here?"

"Who knows?"

"Who _cares?_"  

This, from a shining-eyed Dennis Creevey at the Gryffindor table.  Clearly, Minerva mused with a resigned sigh, Irwin had already won himself a convert – and not only in young Creevey, either; farther down the Lion's Table, Fred and George Weasley were in a state of High Alert, their carroty hair fairly standing on end with ill-suppressed excitement as they craned to get a better look at the newcomer.

Well, she thought philosophically, it was to be expected – and in the case of the Weasley twins, they'd been brilliant slackers in her class from the beginning; Steve Irwin's presence on the faculty wasn't likely to make much difference one way or the other, during their last few months at Hogwarts.  

Her gaze travelled farther down her House table and came to light on three bent-together heads – red, black, chestnut –which housed perhaps the only six eyes in the room that weren't trained disbelievingly on the hairy headlights of Irwin's knees.  Their plates were pushed back, and they were whispering together over what appeared to be a library book, oblivious to their surroundings.

Minerva frowned – those three plus a secret generally added up to trouble – then smiled; it was usually Snape who got to both discover and unravel the mess they made, inevitably ending up a bit worse the wear for his pains.  Seating herself primly in her accustomed chair at the Head Table, she drew her napkin over her lap and – feeling unaccountably cheered – put on her most supercilious look of smirking _hauteur_.  Some anticipatory sarcasm, she felt, was entirely called for under the circumstances.

It had, however, been a long day.  She'd just eat her dinner and wait for the proper moment.

**

The week of classes began and progressed, and Minerva heard Steve Irwin's name invoked at least a dozen times a day, in varying degrees of awestruck disbelief and horrified admiration, from the students who passed through her room.  Even the smear campaign being presently spearheaded by the Malfoy brat (_that ... spawn_, as Hetty Hooch preferred to call him after hours) wasn't having the anticipated effect -- nothing Draco could come up with was nearly as salubrious as the spectacle Irwin himself offered the student body during his classes.

One would think, Minerva thought sourly, that having taken classes with Hagrid would have inured Hogwarts students to mortal peril.  The reports trickling in from the gamekeeper's paddocks, however, were anything but jaded:  Professor Irwin had dug a Jarvey out of a hole and tried to talk to it, Professor Irwin had had his boot incinerated by a disgruntled Fire Crab, Professor Irwin had hung a snapping Doxy upside down by one leg between his thumb and forefinger and put his face_ this close to it_ (here, Gryffindor second-year Andromeda White turned bright pink with the excitement of the retelling and indicated a distance of about half an inch).

Minerva, hopefully assuming a certain amount of storyteller's hyperbole, forced herself not to intervene.  It wasn't until a wide-eyed group of normally stoic Ravenclaw seventh-years came clamouring into her room ("He sat on it, Professor!  He held it down and sat on it!") that her curiosity got the better of her.

"Sat on what, Mr. Acker?" she inquired, carefully modulating her tone so as not to display unseemly interest.  Raymond Acker, his normally pale cheeks flushed with adrenaline, opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and – apparently struck dumb by the magnitude of the feat's stupidity – resorted to some highly dramatic but disappointingly vague pantomime, seeming to indicate a creature of middle-largish size and a certain ferocity.  Minerva, thinking she recognised allusions to stings and suckers amid the confusion of waving arms, raised an eyebrow.  "A Skrewt?"

A babble of affirmation broke out – apparently, this educated guess had won her the vacation for two and the new toaster oven.  What followed next was an impromptu play-by-play, by which Minerva gathered that the Skrewt had broken free and headed for the Forbidden Forest, and Irwin had gone gallumphing after it, tackling it by its stinger and bearing it bodily to the ground.  At that point – judging from the reenactment she was being treated to presently, with Acker as Irwin and his burlier dormitory mate Francis Rivers as the Skrewt – the enraged creature had attempted to blast free, and the resulting series of explosions had sent both Irwin and the Skrewt rocketing around the paddock like a deranged polo player on a mutant pony.

"And?" she asked, biting the inside of her lip to maintain the situation-appropriate poker face.  "What happened then?  Where are they now?"

Mid-wrangle, Acker and Rivers stopped short and looked guiltily at each other.  The small circle of onlookers dropped their eyes.

"Guess we forgot to tell you that part, Professor McGonagall," Rivers said, flushing.  "The Skrewt broke through the paddock wall and went straight into the Forbidden Forest.  Caught a couple of trees on fire as it went, too."

"And Professor Irwin?" Minerva demanded.  The seventh-years shuffled their feet.

"Um.  Well, you see," Acker said in a small voice, "he didn't exactly let go, did he?"

_Merlin's poodle pajamas.  _This was the_ last _thing she needed.

"Get the Headmaster, Acker," she snapped, her wand already in her hand.  "Miss Adams" – this to one of the girls who stood gawking at the edge of the circle – "kindly alert Professor Snape to the situation, then go up to the infirmary and inform Madam Pomfrey that her services may be required shortly.  The rest of you may prepare a six-inch summary of Chapter Seventeen, due to me by our next session.  Class dismissed."

By the time she got to the door, she was running.

**


	5. Substitute, Chapter 5

THE SUBSTITUTE, Chapter Five 

******

On later reflection, Minerva figured she could have saved herself the trouble.

Panting, clutching the stitch in her side, ankle throbbing where she'd twisted it against a protruding root, she'd raced through the Forbidden Forest with her wand outthrust, calling Irwin's name, Snape on her heels like some evil-tempered, muttering mastiff.  They'd been so intent on pursuit that they nearly tripped over the Skrewt when they rounded a bend in the path, half an hour or so into their quest, and came upon it, lying neatly trussed with kudzu vines – chittering irritably to itself, but otherwise quite loglike – across the narrow path.  Minerva screeched to a halt, shooting Snape a fulminating look over her shoulder when he crashed into her.

"Do keep your wits about you, won't you, Severus?" she inquired primly.  "As you can see, the path is obstructed."

He snarled at her.

"It's all very well for _you_ to take this lightly," he said.  A muscle was ticking by the corner of his mouth.  "The worst-case scenario you'll face upon returning to your classroom is that the pincushions will be strolling about.  When I get back, I'll be fortunate to have a room _left_."

"Well, if you'd thought to dismiss your class when Miss Adams came to get you, you wouldn't have to worry about that, would you?"

His lip curled.  

"You may find this difficult to process, Minerva, but _some_ of us don't believe in allowing the students to lollygag about and miss their classes for every little happenstance that turns up.  I have an ironclad curriculum to follow, and it's hard enough to herd that bunch of lamebrains through it _without_ further compromising my schedule.  If I could afford to give random afternoons off at the snap of a finger, I'd have taken off for Tahiti by now."  

He nudged the indignant Skrewt with the stylish squared-off toe of one impeccable Etienne Aigner half-boot.  "Far more sensible to put Miss Adams in charge of the remainder of the class, and threaten all concerned with dismemberment if it's not spotless on my return.  And why exactly are we out here, anyway?  Further testament to the time-honoured custom of Gryffindor meddling?  Seems obvious to me that he's got his … creature … well under control without our assistance."

"That," Minerva snapped, "is _not_ the same tune you were singing ten minutes ago.  Let's not forget who it was that suggested we bring along an urn to keep the ashes in, shall we?"  She stepped carefully over the Skrewt and peered into the dense twilight of the foliage.  "Besides – this far in, a rogue Skrewt's the least of his worries.  Until we've found the man himself, I shan't rest easy."

Snape had just drawn breath to reply – something profoundly disrespectful, no doubt – when a scrap of boisterous song drifted through the trees.  Minerva, frowning, strained to hear.

"_You can't loop the loop like a cockatoo – Um-ba-da-lip-ida-da-da!  Float and toss like an albatross – Um-ba-da-lip-ida-da-da!_"

Merlin in bunny slippers, what fresh new kind of hell was this?

She shifted her gaze to Snape.  He was massaging the bridge of his nose and looking pained.  Over the bend, the singing grew more raucous:  "_You silly gallah, I'm better by far than a white cockatoo or a budgerigar!  They squeak and squawk and try to talk – why, me and them's like cheese and chalk!_"

"What's that sound, do you think?" Minerva wanted to know.  "Drumbeats?"  Snape rolled his eyes.

"Stomping," he corrected.  "It's the centaurs – I've seen them at it before, when I've come out to gather Jocastafari seedlings; you have to pull those just at dusk, you know, or they won't keep no matter how many Preservation Spells you mutter at them.  They're tying one on.  Could drink an elephant under the table, I'd wager.  Quite good dancers, though."

Minerva's eyebrows shot up.  "Centaurs?" she said, doubtful.  "Aren't they rather … uh, sober fellows?  I've always found them very well-spoken."

"Well, they like to put across the impression that they're these esoteric stargazers," Snape said.  "And of course they've had Hagrid snowed for decades."  He frowned.  "But I've never heard them _sing_ before.  And that _accent—_"

He had a point there; the lead vocalist, currently bawling out _Ba-da-doo-doo, da-doo-doo-doo_ at the top of his lungs, was clearly a son of Queensland.  

Trading a pained look, they hastened farther into the forest toward the sound of singing.

**

It was full dark before they finally puffed around the last bend and found themselves on the outskirts of the centaurs' camp.  

Traditionally, centaurs made their homes in limestone river caves – the Hogwarts contingent, however, lacking that particular bit of topography, had made do with a neat series of four L-shaped stables, snuggled under mighty oak trees in a natural valley and built around a round stone-walled courtyard.  Originally, the stables had been shingled over in unfinished wood – somewhere along the line, however, ivy had been Charmed up the outer walls until the material under it was all but obscured by a living blanket of green.  There were powerful anti-trespassing wards on the whole structure, Minerva knew; centaurs had their own ideas of humour and vengeance, and often they intertwined to the detriment of whoever crossed them.  She kept a safe distance back from the barracks and let Snape approach the centaur on guard.

"Cassius.  You're looking well."

The young centaur dipped his russet head and bent one foreleg in a spare-but-courtly bow.  "Severus Snape.  Greetings in the name of the Huntress."  He nodded toward Minerva.  "Greetings."

"We apologise for the intrusion," Severus murmured smoothly.  "We fear one of our newer colleagues has … lost his way this evening."

"It is difficult to become lost," Cassius rejoined, "when you call no living being a stranger."  His face remained expressionless; his eyes, however, danced with grave humour.  "And it is a rare human indeed who dares to drink the wine of mandrakes from a centaur's cup.  I fear you should have brought a litter on which to bear your straying companion safely home."

Wizard and witch exchanged looks of quiet horror.

"I must have misunderstood you," Minerva said weakly.  "Surely you're not giving a human man with no magical capabilities whatsoever _mandrake wine_?"

From the courtyard within, hidden from view by a gently waving curtain of ivy, came the ever-faster _tatatatata_ of hoofbeats on hard-packed earth, punctuated by laughter and shouts of encouragement.  Above the din rose Steve Irwin's serviceable, not-unpleasant baritone:  _Onsh a jolly shwagman shat b'shide th'bill'bong, Undrath'shideuva cool'bah tree …_

Minerva shuddered.

Undee shang azee shat and waited bytha bill'bong – you'll come-a waltzshing Matilda wifme …

"In the name of the Serpent's dry cleaning," muttered Snape into her ear, "will it never _end_?"  

Cassius shrugged apologetically.  "You know us, Severus," he said, his voice self-deprecating.  "It's no fun to dance if someone doesn't sing, and none of our number has what you'd exactly call a _voice_.  I'm afraid we've been encouraging him."

"Yes, well," Snape said drily, raising his voice to be heard above the chorus, "this one's like crab grass.  Give him an inch and he'll take the whole yard."  He dug a bony elbow into Minerva's ribs.  "Are you ready?  It's going to take the both of us to hoist him out of here."

She shot him a sideways look.  "You don't sound particularly displeased about it.  Has the long walk done for your sarcasm, then?"

He ran a thoughtful tongue over his teeth.  "Have you ever indulged in mandrake wine, Minerva?"

She frowned.  "I'd say that's a rather personal question, wouldn't you, Severus?"

"I'll take it that's a _no_, then."  He smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant smile.  "He can sing all he wants now, the idiot.  But when he wakes up tomorrow, he's going to wish that he'd never thought to _breathe_."

Minerva studied him cautiously.  "Am I to assume, then," she ventured, "that someone will see to it that the poor man doesn't miss breakfast?"

There was that smile again.  "I'd hardly be a good colleague if I let him go undernourished, wouldn't I now?"  He slid an arch glance at her over his shoulder.  "Especially on a Saturday morning.  Weekends can be _so_ taxing."

Minerva scratched one of the six insect bites presently adorning the inside of her elbow.  Revenge might not have been the noblest of motivations, but at the moment she couldn't think of anything else that would get them back to Hogwarts without a homicide on their collective conscience – especially if she had to hear about billabongs and jolly jumbucks all the way there. 

"It's so refreshing to see you take an interest in your fellow man, Severus," she said at last.  "I'd begun to think you had no philanthropic urges left in you at all."

For once in perfect accord, they nodded to Cassius and ducked through the curtain of ivy.

**


	6. Substitute, Chapter 6

**THE SUBSTITUTE, Chapter Six**

******

Minerva hadn't much of a head for spirits, and knew it; subsequently, she avoided hard liquor.  As a general rule.  

The centaurs, however, proved to be persuasive hosts.  The last thing she remembered was saying, "Another?  I really shouldn't – well, just a _small_ one, then."  Now, she'd mysteriously sprouted ten extra fingers on each hand.  

And five of them were _blue_.

She moved her three right index fingers experimentally in front of her face and let out a quiet hiccough.  Snape nudged her with his elbow.

"Pusshycat, pusshycat, whervyou been?"  He giggled, made a snorting sound, and pointed at her.  "Pusshycat.  Thashyou.  Geddit?"

Minerva regarded him narrowly from behind her fan of extra digits.

"You," she said at length, "are a hanshom man.  Alwaysh thotsho.  Like whatshishname.  Th'muggle.  Cary.  Cary.  Cantrmember.  Carycarycary."  She wagged the blue finger at him for emphasis, blinking in mild astonishment when the other two went along with it.  "Whatshmypoint?  Oh.  Hanshom."

"Really?"  He preened, swayed, then grabbed at her arm to keep himself from toppling over headfirst.  Somehow they'd ended up sitting on the stone steps leading from the courtyard to the inner entrance to one of the centaurs' barracks; Minerva wasn't sure how that had happened, nor why she had a wreath of spring dandelions in her hair, but it didn't seem to matter at the moment.  "Y'thinksho?"

She nodded emphatically.  "Absho-absho … whatshawordagin?  _Yesh_."

"Thanksh.  Flattrer."  He paused, frowned as a soggy new thought swam its laborious way to the surface, and nodded toward her feet.  "M'nerva.  Y'gotnoshoeshon.  Pussh wifno boots."  Hiccough.  "_Pusshnoboots_."

For some reason, both of them found this terrifically witty.

Tipped together, snickering shoulder-to-shoulder in wobbly, boozy synchronicity, they gazed out at the scene around them.  Most of the centaurs had broken off into sweetly nuzzling pairs, their gangly-legged bodies folded into furry quadrangles at regular intervals around the courtyard's grass perimeter.  A few of the younger ones were still dancing, swaying gracefully to an unheard tune of their own devising underneath the pearl teardrop of the quarter-moon.  Steve Irwin, in true mythic solitary-bard style, was propped against the opposite wall, khaki-clad butt in the grass, a half-empty decanter of mandrake wine still clasped loosely in his right hand.

"_Onshaponatoim therewazsh loitinmoiloife," _he crooned absently, his eyes closed, his doughboy's-face beatific.  "_Nowtherzshonly luvinth'dark_."  Around the circle, shaggy heads nodded in melancholy unison.  Minerva sniffed, wiped away a lone tear that had sprung mysteriously into being on her cheek, and heard Snape, his head still nestled on her shoulder, clear his throat.

"_NothinIcanshay_," he warbled, unexpectedly taking up the tune as Irwin paused for another slug from his decanter.  "_'Tshatotaleclipshuvth'hear—_M'nerva?"

"Shevrush."  She'd managed to pry his head off her shoulder and clumsily pivot so that all thirty of her trembling fingers were clamped securely on his upper arms; there was a Big Point to be made here.  His head drooped to one side; she tipped hers to a similar angle so she could look him in the eyes.  "Y'vegotta beautiful voish, Shevrush."

He gazed at her with myopic, vacant tenderness.  "M'nerva.  Prettypretty pusshycat M'nerva.  Wanna petyou.  Wannapetyou _allover_."

The moon was bright and the night was clear – she was sitting on his lap somehow, don't ask how _that_ had come to pass, because she certainly didn't know – and everything was slow-spinning and lovely.  She hadn't felt like this in _forever_.

"_Turnaround broightoizsh_," Steve crooned from the other side of the courtyard.  Severus had nuzzled his way inside her robes; some time ago, they'd lost their balance and tipped sideways onto the grass.  When had that happened?  Didn't matter.  Minerva fastened her hands in his dark lank hair and closed her eyes.

Her last coherent thought:  _I feel so young_.

**

She had a mad Doxy in her head, and it was kicking the inside of her skull.

_Thunk.  Thunk_.  Pause.  _Thunk_.

Cautiously, she opened one eye, hissed, and shut it again.  _Too bright.  Too hot.  And why is my pillow so scratchy?  Must have words with the laundry elves – they're using far too much starch in the linens_.

_Wait a minute_.

Steeling herself against the brightness of the morning sun, she let her eyelids creak up to half-mast again and stared, unbelieving, at the object flung carelessly across her chest.

It was an arm.  A _naked_ arm.

Fingers curled up toward the palm, long and slender and thickly calloused.  Veins pumping briefly blue through the sallow-skinned wrist.  Her eyes flicked up toward the elbow – and froze.  

The Dark Mark was staring her in the face.

Heart in her throat – _it's a dream, a bad dream, that's all_ – she shoved at the offending weight on her chest and struggled to sit up, stifling a shriek as she simultaneously discovered her own lack of a nightgown and put her hand down on the worker ant trudging up the inside of her knee.  Scrambling away backwards on her hands and knees, she brushed at herself frantically until that awful ticklish crawling sensation had gone away, then crossed her arms over her naked breasts and forced herself to look around.

She was sitting on a somewhat crushed patch of grass, sandwiched in between ivy-covered walls and a circle of paving stones.  Her clothes were an arm's-length away, bottle-green mixed up with black.  She retrieved them hastily, shook them out, and shrugged into them, noting with barely-suppressed anxiety that her brassiere had been torn nearly in half, and that there were grass stains on her … well, never mind.

Across the circle, Professor Irwin was sprawled against the wall, snoring, one arm flung over Firenze's shoulders in a brotherly embrace.  Minerva felt the events of the previous evening filtering back into her memory, and shuddered.

What she'd said.  What he'd done.  What they'd –

_No.  Don't think about that_.

Now fully clothed, her wand in her hand, she felt herself brave enough to look back over her shoulder at the man whose arms she'd just left.  He was as naked as she had been; she supposed that she ought to be seeing him in a fonder, more misty light, now that they'd been … er, _intimate_ … but it just wasn't happening:  he was still Snape, pale and too thin and frowning even in his sleep, his lank hair in unbecoming tangles around his face and his unmarred arm cupping the other as if it pained him.

Maybe it did.  But she didn't want to know about it.

_I don't want to know him this well_.

Moreover, now that she thought about it, he himself would be mortified to be seen thus – here was a man, after all, who had never professed a hobby, never accepted an invitation to the pub, never entertained in his rooms or stepped foot into anyone else's.  She was fairly sure that no one else had laid eyes on Severus Snape's naked body _in totalis_ since he'd come to work at Hogwarts; mandrake wine or no, this unfortunate … occurrence … was the worst sort of privacy-invasion imaginable.

"_Vestio_," she muttered, looking away, and didn't glance back at him until he was safely draped in his customary black robes.  

Better – but not complete.

Teeth clenched on her lower lip, she raised her wand and pointed it at his still-sleeping figure.  "_Obliviate_," she said calmly into the morning air – then pocketed the wand and turned away, through the curtain of hanging vines and out across the clearing toward the path which led to the castle.

If he were conscious, he'd thank her for this.

**


	7. Substitute, Chapter 7

**THE SUBSTITUTE, Chapter Seven**

******

She saw Snape coming back from the Forbidden Forest from her bedroom window later that morning, his face held in its customary severe lines.  Whether or not he made an appearance for luncheon, Minerva didn't know – she herself elected to eat in her rooms.

"Professor McGonagall is not feeling well?" Dobby inquired as he set down the tray, his eyebrows drawn into worried bloodhound-lines.  Minerva sighed.

"I'm fine, Dobby," she said.  "Just catching up on some overdue grading, that's all."

He nodded, but it was clear he didn't believe her – house-elves could smell a lie from a hundred paces.  Ten to one she'd be getting an afternoon house-call from Poppy, Minerva thought, and fought the urge to wearily massage her temples.

It was very hard not to blame this whole mess on Steve Irwin.  Nevertheless, when he came lolloping up to her the next morning in the Great Hall after breakfast, wearing a repentant look and bearing a slightly wilted bouquet of carnations, Minerva managed a polite smile.

"Apologies due all round," he said, and offered her the flowers with a rueful upward glance that made him look, more than ever, like a startled blond guinea pig.  "'Fraid I tied one on last night – there's a whole chunk of yesterday I can't remember for love nor money.  Much obliged for the rescue; hope it wasn't an inconvenience."

Minerva, feeling her polite Company Smile turning into an outright grimace, sighed and took the carnations.  "Not at all, Professor," she said tightly.  "Centaurs have a somewhat esoteric sense of humour; if anything, I'd say you were more victim than villain in the matter.  And –" she swallowed hard –"it's not as if we did much rescuing, now, is it?"

It wasn't an entirely rhetorical question.  She was fairly certain that by the time she and Snape had gotten … shudder … _friendly_, Irwin had been out cold.  And he'd seemed just as insensate this morning, during her – uh, tidying up.

But one couldn't be too sure, could one?

She watched him carefully, not sure what to hope for – what did he know, if anything?  Surely if he'd seen, if he'd _remembered_, it would be all over his face; if ever she'd met a man without guile, Steve Irwin was that man.  But he only smiled, his eyes clear and open as ever, and tipped his head to one side.

"Even so," he said.  "'S the thought that counts.  And I do appreciate it, Minerva."

A small group of students at the Gryffindor table, lingering over their porridge, cut sly glances their way.  One of the girls giggled.  Minerva, in the innermost depths of her soul, cursed silently – and stepped back; now wasn't the time to question Irwin further, no matter how much she'd have liked to do just that.  "A pleasure," she said, and backed hurriedly away toward the Grand Staircase, holding the carnations away from her as if he'd handed her a bunch of poison oak.

_Later_.

**

She managed to avoid direct conversation with Snape until the following Tuesday, at which point her luck ran out.  Tuesdays meant faculty meetings after dinner, up in the conference room off Albus's office, and generally Minerva was the first to arrive.  Tonight, however, she was detained – one of her third-years, a Beater on Hufflepuff's Reserve team, had missed class the following day due to a compound fracture, and had questions about his Transfiguration assignment – and by the time she'd shaken him off and wrangled her way past the spinning gargoyle ('_Acid pop!'_), everyone else had arrived at the meeting and the only seat left empty was next to Snape.

"Severus," she murmured, sliding into her chair and hitching it discreetly away from him.  He grunted, but didn't look up from his grading.  Across the table, Dumbledore beamed at her.

"Ah, there you are, Minerva," he said.  "I presume you got young Gardner sorted out, then?"

"That's a job for more than fifteen minutes after dinner, I'm afraid," Minerva said, and watched from the corner of her eye as Hetty Hooch went into an impromptu coughing fit.  Sprout, looking disgruntled, pounded her on the back.  Dumbledore's beatific expression didn't falter.

"Good, good."  He nodded brightly.  "Well, then, shall we anon?  Any old business?"

A squeak from the end of the table; apparently Flitwick needed more boot-buttons and another shipment of chipmunks.  Minerva groaned inwardly – these supply-lists of his were interminable, and contagious to boot; any minute now, someone else would catch the bug and suddenly decide _they _were understocked, too.  The only question was – who?

"Headmaster."  A wispy voice and pale, limply raised hand from the corner armchair by the fire.  "As long as you're ordering – another box of crystal balls, if you'd be so kind; breakage has been simply _rampant_ this month –"

_Of course_, Minerva thought, _who else?_, and added another paragraph to her mental list of Things She'd Like to Say Aloud But Never Would, Due to Good Upbringing.  Beside her, Severus hummed in malevolent satisfaction and reloaded his quill with red ink.  _Worse than execrable_, Minerva read over his shoulder.  _Will need significant rewriting merely to achieve a state of honourable failure.  Will not accept in current state.  _

He looked pensive for a moment, then lowered quill to parchment once again.  _See me for detention tomorrow night.  You will need a grammatical primer and a pair of dragonhide gloves_.

"Oh, _honestly_," Minerva muttered, and his shoulders stiffened.  By the time he looked up, however, he'd effectively masked all outward signs of surprise.

"Honesty," he repeated, and smirked.  "A virtue to which I constantly aspire.  How about yourself, Minerva?"

Across the room, Poppy had climbed onto the supply-list bandwagon and – from the sound of it – put her foot down hard on the accelerator.  "Don't I wish," Minerva said fervently, and was surprised to hear a muffled snicker of appreciation from Snape.

"Cathartic in the extreme," he remarked now under his breath.  "And remarkably satisfying, for all that it's viewed by society at large as a bit of a social disease."

"Social disease?"  Struck by a new and horrifying phalanx of catastrophic possibilities, Minerva frowned and hitched her chair away another few inches.  Severus, reading her mind, smirked.

"Don't worry, Minerva," he murmured.  "It's been at least two weeks since my last orgy; I rather imagine that whatever parasites I picked up at the time are too fatigued by now to make the jump."  A malicious glance, sliding from the top of her securely-pinned knot of hair to the toes of her sensible black-leather boots.  "And if not – why fret?  The moment they touched you, they'd die of cold anyway."

That cut, but she'd slit her throat before she let him see it.  Determinedly, she curled her lip at him.  "An orgy, Severus?" she hissed.  "I don't believe it for a minute.  You're the only man I know who can use his own personality instead of _Contraceptus_.  When the Death-Eaters celebrate, they probably make you stay in the corner and run the hi-fi."

He didn't like that one little bit, oh no.  She could almost see his comeback curdling the air between them; it took her a moment to realise that the rest of the room had fallen silent … and that she and Snape were the object of the faculty's expectant stares.

"… all right then, Minerva?"  That was Dumbledore, twinkling at her.  _Probably still talking about supplies, _Minerva thought, and smiled haughtily; _some of us plan ahead, and order accordingly_.

"Fine, thank you," she said, and was vaguely alarmed to hear Hooch snicker quietly from across the room.  Dumbledore turned to Snape.

"And you, Severus?"

Snape jerked his head in grudging assent.  Another suppressed giggle from the opposite corner.  Dumbledore beamed.

"Fine, then," he said.  "Wonderful to see you two working together so amicably.  I'm quite certain that the Leaving Feast will be the best it's been yet, with both of you co-chairing the committee."

_Wait a minute._

Minerva opened her mouth, thought better of what she was about to say, and closed it again.  Beside her, Snape was fuming silently and trying unsuccessfully not to show it.

They'd been had.

**


End file.
